


Colorful

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Swearing, im not too terribly sorry for this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-08-19 22:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: you know the au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate? yeah this is that but less happy





	Colorful

“Let’s see, got the soup, got the pens, got the new bulbs for Roman’s vanity dresser,” Virgil mutters to himself, scribbling dark lines on the list with a purple pen. “Roman, did you get the—” The prince in questions dashes by, swinging a foam sword at a toddler. “—paper. I’ll take that as a no.” With a sigh, he trundles his cart down the office supply aisle, bending with a groan for the bottom row.

“Hey Virgil!” a voice calls. “You highlight my life!” Patton beams, holding up a fistful of highlighters in front of his face.

“Patton, could you just help me out here? Corral Roman or something?”

“Aw, sorry, kiddo, did that one not really stick with you?” He produces a stack of sticky notes from his pocket, smiling wider now.

“Patton. Please.” Virgil rises from his not-quite-a-squat, package of paper in hand, and deposits it in the overflowing cart. Two microwave meals slide down, crunching on the floor in protest. He can’t bring himself to be annoyed, still somewhat entranced by the hues dancing over the box. Reds and greens and yellows in so many shades, making the fake food and congealed cheese in the picture look that much less gross. Another purple line on the neverending list, and Virgil moves on, clicking away at the pen absentmindedly.

As Roman tears down the next aisle, probably terrorizing some other unfortunate adolescent, Virgil smiles at the pen in his hand, remembering when Logan first handed it to him. “There’s not a lot of purple things,” he said, “so maybe this will be your first time with this color.” The spectacled boy turned out to be right, having found a new shade for Virgil to add to a growing palette of colors in his mind. He savored each of them, feeling his eyes widen just a little more with each added hue. Purple, Logan told him, purple, purple, purple. A purple to picture the midnight sky of his dreams, to fill a canvas with a color he couldn’t have imagined, not that he had to. Logan imagined it for him. His favorite pen, running dangerously low on ink after so long. Virgil tosses a few refills into the cart, allowing a small grin to escape at Patton’s quip about being “a staple in my life” with a stapler prop, of course. The glamour of color hasn’t been lost on him, per se, but he’s had more time to grow accustomed to it than Virgil—after all, he’d met Roman years ago.

Virgil tuts to himself, skimming over the rest of the list—an unreasonable amount of items, made longer by Roman’s undying need to add every last sparkly object in. At the very least, it wouldn’t kill the guy to chip in a little, given how Virgil was the only one to do any necessity shopping in the apartment. “Let’s see, ramen should be just a couple aisles over.” He pushes off the cart with its squeaky broken wheel, letting the sounds of a dueling Roman chase after him. Judging by the giggles, he probably just swatted Patton with the flat of his foam sword. Why a dollar store had foam swords out in the open for overgrown children to play with, Virgil would never know.

“You noodled your way into my heart, but I ra-mean it when I say you ra-mean so much to me,” Patton says, holding out a fistful of ramen packages.

“I expected more of you,” Roman calls from the end of the aisle. “The same pun twice? I know I’ve done worse, but for you, Patton? That’s pretty low.” Virgil just smiles, taking the offered packets and tossing them in the cart. He remembers the first time he taught Logan how to cook ramen, as “starving college kids like them need fake sustenance.” The latter’s glasses fogged up beyond belief, but honestly, what self-respecting nerd would lean over a steaming pot? Virgil’s self-respecting nerd, that’s who. The weird off-yellow reflected in the knobs on the stove, an ugly color that Virgil was happy to add to his repertoire. One more hue to solidify that Logan was real, that this was real, that he could actually have someone to be with, the way Patton and Roman did.

“Roman, you still going to the beach next weekend?” Virgil asks.

“Yeah, you gonna come?”

“I think the fuck not.”

“Language!” Patton chides.

“English,” Virgil replies, disinterested. For all the things he showed Patton online, his answer shouldn’t have been that surprising.

Virgil grabs a couple bottles of sunscreen, knowing full well that Roman would try to sneak tanning lotion into an empty container. Given the bright red color smearing over him last time that happened, Virgil wasn’t about to take any risks. The dimly flickering overhead lights cast a grotesque tint over the cans, the dark blue a marred mockery of the night sky. Another world, full of twinkling lights burning and shining and dying in passionate explosions, coloring his world since before he could see them. Bright shots of light to illuminate Logan’s eyes as he pointed out the constellations, a quiet awe in his voice as he guided Virgil through using the telescope, words tripping over themselves to share everything he’d saved up for so long. The odd poetry in Logan’s comparisons, how the darkest blues of the endlessness overhead was never fully appreciated, how the flashes of white and yellow and orange were more popular, but he loved the blue. Logan loved the way it drank in everything, absorbing the night and spitting it back out in clouds and rain and fog, only to take it back and spread the day across the canvas of the sky, smeared in forgotten memories. Virgil loved the way it made Logan’s eyes sparkle, the way such a collected person could turn into a rambling mess in his utter adoration for something he couldn’t possibly comprehend in its entirety. With what he knows to be a ridiculously lovesick smile on his face, he drops the cans into the overflowing cart.

“Virgil! Virgil Virgil Virgil Virgil!” Patton exclaims, careening into the cart before Virgil can get it moving again. “Guess what!”

“What.” Less of a question, more of a reluctant agreement to go along with whatever Patton’s trying to pull this time. Virgil slashes another purple line on the list.

“No, you have to guess! I’ll give you a hint.” Patton holds up a plastic toy avocado.

“I avoca-don’t know, why don’t you tell me guaca-more?” Virgil says drily, eyeing the object. As much as it pains Logan to hear the impossibly cheesy puns, Virgil won’t deny enjoying them, or enjoying how happy they make Patton. He isn’t about to admit to liking them, of course, but he doesn’t hate them, and he definitely doesn’t hate Patton.

“Okay, fine, but those were good too.” Patton starts over a few times, interrupting himself with his own giggles. “My love for you is a multiple of  _ Avocadro’s _ number!”

“Don’t you have a soulmate you should be saying that to?” Virgil ducks his head, trying valiantly to hide the little smile he can’t get rid of.

“You’re good, Blink one eighty snooze,” Roman declares, brandishing yet another foam sword. “If I can mess with Logan, Patton can pester you.”

“I wouldn’t call it pestering, but whatever.” Virgil takes the toy from Patton, setting it back on the shelf with its companions before continuing down the list, the green color sticking in his mind like broccoli to teeth. The first time he tried making an actual, legitimate,  _ healthy  _ dinner for Logan, the only edible thing on the table was a salad. A dully shining gem amongst an array of burnt meatballs, crunchy spaghetti, and undercooked garlic bread. By some miracle, Virgil had managed to not screw up opening a plastic bag and emptying it over a plate, but worry not, because if there were a way to do that wrong, then by  _ gosh  _ he would find it. Regardless of the state of the pathetic meal, Logan took it all in stride, reminding Virgil how few people succeeded on their first try, and demonstrating exactly why Virgil was so lucky to have someone like Logan around. Horrendous food in his stomach, he went to sleep with a smile on his face that night.

“Here’s the six packs,” Roman says, hefting a set of soda bottles into the cart, “and  _ here’s  _ the  _ six packs. _ ” He raps a fist against his stomach, waffling air through the shirt with a grin. “See, Pat? I can do puns too!”

“I’m very proud of you, Ro,” Patton replies, pulling him into a tight hug. Virgil fakes a disgusted gag at their flirting before pocketing the effectively illegible list. The pop was the last thing to go.

“Can we stop for coffee first?” Roman asks, veering the cart toward said coffee shop at the front of the store.

“I do have to  _ pay,  _ y’know,” Virgil sighs, passing Roman a ten with a dismissive wave. “Get me an iced black coffee.” Roman flashes a thumbs up and a grin, dashing for the counter while Patton stays behind to help Virgil get the abyss of groceries onto the cashier’s conveyor belt. The person working does nothing to mask the horror that crosses her face at the mass of crap, a look of disgust to rival Virgil’s own as the price footing the receipt slowly creeps upward. Patton signs off at the foot of the tab, given how he’s the only one who ever bothered to get a credit card, smiling at Virgil as he takes the red pen from the clerk. Virgil rolls his eyes halfway around, unable to stop his neurons from firing off a connection between the red pen and the red sash Roman insisted on wearing around the apartment. Just a white elephant Christmas gift from Logan—“a winter holiday gift,” he insisted—for the guy who loved mimicking the prince’s lines on Disney movie night. Suffice it to say, Roman didn’t take the sash off for a solid week.

“Ah, thanks,” Virgil says as Roman returns, four drinks balanced precariously between his arms and his chest. Virgil reaches for the darkest one to lighten Roman’s load, confused when he leans away.

“That’s the chocolate one. This is yours.” He shrugs a shoulder to indicate a different cup, of the same hue as the first.

“Right. I knew that.” Virgil shakes his head, trying to knock the confusion and growing headache out. “I thought the straws were green?”

Patton’s brow furrows as his mouth twists in worry. “The straw  _ is  _ green, kiddo.”

“No it’s not, it’s—it’s grey, you guys,” Virgil murmurs. The straw is grey, he would swear by it. The cup is grey. His eyes dart to Patton’s shirt, a dark grey under his normal pale grey cardigan cape. Patton’s grey eyes are clouded over in concern, his grey hair obstructing nothing through his dark grey glasses. Virgil drops his grey plastic cup, ignoring the way its grey contents slosh over his tennis shoes. “It’s  _ grey. _ ”

Ignoring Patton and Roman’s panicked shouts, Virgil sprints out the front door, leaving the cart of bagged groceries where it is as his sneakers pound against the carpet before the automatic door. He trips, skids on his knees, feels the fabric of his jeans rip, but he keeps going, ignoring the posthumous sting of the cement. All of the traffic lights blink bright grey, inconsequential as he crosses the street, not certain whether he’s jaywalking and not particularly caring. He remembers the stars—bright white stars, flashes of yellow that exist only in his mind, blinding and brighter than the grey sphere shining above him, peeking out through fluffy grey clouds. Lucky stars, or what could have passed for a fairy light, that they live close enough to walk from the apartment to the store, that he can sprint home to Logan without dealing with grey cars on grey roads behind grey honks of grey horns. The building looms over Virgil, grey bricks threatening to fall as grey tears blur his vision.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters, fumbling his grey keys into the grey lock of the grey front door before darting up the grey stairs into their grey apartment door. The grey light behind the bathroom door streams into the rest of the main room, twisting a sickening knot in Virgil’s stomach. “Logan?” No response. Should he have expected any different?

He creeps over to the cracked opening, squeezing his eyes to block it out before relenting and opening everything, grey eyes and grey door and grey mouth. He claps a hand over his face at the sight.

Logan, on the floor, surrounded by shards of Roman’s shattered vanity mirror. “You promised we would fix it together,” Virgil chokes out, sinking to his knees at Logan’s side and ignoring how the glass pieces dig into his legs. “Why would you start without us? I told you it’d be dangerous.” Fewer than five syllables make it out of his throat, just a trembling boy whispering by a motionless body, grey in more ways than one. Virgil watches grey liquids drip from the grey skin, darkened by grey droplets raining down from his face. The last dregs of brown leech out of Logan’s eyes, draining into nothingness as the old warmth that lit up Virgil’s heart fades into cold steel, out of his reach forever.

Virgil lifts grey hands to his eyes, his body wracked with ice and silent sobs. He doesn’t feel the regretful grey pats on his back, or the heavy grey blanket wrapped around his shoulders, or the emptiness of air below him as some grey thing moves him to some other grey place. He doesn’t remove his hands until his grey eyes have parched themselves, the last drips of grey saltwater receding into his head, to stake their claim on a place only his memories can reach. His memories of purple pens, of yellow ramen, of blue night skies, of green salads, of red sashes, of someone he held so close, for so little time, ripped away without so much as a goodbye.

Virgil’s eyes dry.

Virgil’s hands lower.

The apartment is empty.


End file.
